A Moment of Grace
by Nova802
Summary: Daryl's been holding onto something he needs to return to Carol. The first in a series of Caryl drabbles because I ship them hard. Rated for language/themes.
1. A Moment of Grace

_A/N: This is a new fandom and a new pairing for me and I'm still getting my feet wet. I'd love feedback if you're so inclined. All disclaimers apply. _

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**A Moment of Grace**

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He watches Carol through the cell door for a moment, hand tightening reflexively on the bars when she stirs restlessly. He should let her sleep. Rest and liquids, that was what Hershel had said, like that's all she needs to forget about fighting her way through a pack of geeks and then being left to die in some godforsaken closet.

He swallows that portion of guilt down to where the rest of it lies; it ain't no use to him now. He found her, opened that door and touched her and found clear eyes and warm living flesh. It's a moment of grace that he sure as hell doesn't deserve. She does though.

"Daryl?" She makes a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh and he moves forward as her eyes blink open.

"Here," he says shortly, grabbing the canteen next to the bunk she's lying in-Lori's bunk-he remembers, wincing.

"That bad, huh?" she asks, struggling up on one elbow.

He shrugs her off, watching her sideways as her mouth quirks up at the corner and then slides an arm around her shoulders to ease her up into a seated position. It's a little fucked up how natural that comes but he'll push that thought down too.

"Drink," he says, and she does while he settles into the chair next to her, scraping his boots along the floor and picking at the frayed hem of his shirt. "You had something to eat?"

"Carl brought me something a little while ago. He...he brought the baby too." She pauses a few beats, runs a weary hand along the blanket. "Little Ass-kicker?"

"S'a good name," he defends.

"It is," she agrees with a smile and they sit in companionable silence for a while until the damn fools out in the common area start up again.

"Getting kind of noisy out there," she says.

"Stupid waste of time," he grunts. "All this shit about the whens and hows and if we need to make another ammo run first. We ain't letting this go, no matter what that woman with the sword has to say about the sick fuck running the place."

Or about his brother.

Enough talk. He's going to go and get his people back and if anyone gets in his way-if Merle gets in his way-well then someone isn't gonna walk away from that.

She's nodding like she understands and if anyone does, if anyone can get how twisted up it all is in his head, it's probably her.

The bickering outside the cell is picking up again. He catches Rick saying his name and it's enough to spur him into action.

"Got something for you," he says, licking his lip nervously when she angles her body towards him. He pulls out the knife he's been carrying ever since the tombs, now cleaned and resharpened. Just like he did all those months ago when he first gave it to her, he wraps her fingers around the hilt, only this time he doesn't release her hand, Instead, he holds on, frowning down at a smudge of dirt on the inside of her wrist and rubbing at it with his thumb.

"Don't lose it," he warns. _Be safe._ "Don't wanna have to go looking for you when I get back." _I don't think I can do that again. _

He's always been shit with words.

Only maybe she understands that too, because her other hand comes to rest on top of his own and squeezes and he feels the warmth of it all the way down to his toes, quieting all his turmoil and uncertainty along the way..

"Daryl! You ready?" Rick's voice echoes down the hall.

"Yeah," he calls back and then to her, "Take care of them." _Take care of yourself._

"I will," she promises.

She releases his hand and he lets out a breath and walks away.


	2. The Gift

**_A/N: Set between season two and three. Enjoy!_**

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**The Gift**

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"Ya need something like this for close work," Daryl says shortly, handing the knife to her handle first.

She grasps it hesitantly and he corrects her grip, his calloused hands pushing hers into the position he wants and then dropping away quickly.

"Short blade like this, you gotta go for the eye-socket." His glance is kind before it skitters away, looking everywhere but at her directly. "Best you don't be in that situation to begin with if you can help it. Get Rick to teach you how to shoot."

He leaves her without another word, but the next day she finds a homemade sheath on her bedroll and she knows she has a foolish smile on her face as she fastens it on to her belt.


	3. Shadows

_**A/N: Carol faces her own ghosts during "Hounded'**_

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**Shadows**

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"_Nobody's coming for you,_" Ed's voice hisses in her ear. "_You're already dead_."

Carol startles and then blinks twice and it hurts, it all hurts here in the dark, her head and the sharp sting of scratches, and the familiar ache of bruises spreading beneath her skin.

"I'm not," she says, but it's little more than a breath, dry leaves rustling along an empty sidewalk.

"_Then you should be. Should've been with me that night, been bitten and chewed up and put out of your misery at the end of a pick-ax._"

Just like that she can feel the surprising weight and heft of the tool in her hands and then the sickening thud it makes splitting his skull open over and over again.

"Shut the hell up, Ed," she tells the empty air, gritting her teeth against the pain as she pushes her foot out and makes solid contact with the door.


	4. The Safest Place

_**A/N: Carol's first night back with the group in 'When the Dead Come Knocking'**_

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**The Safest Place**

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Carol pushes herself to stay busy all day, or at least a busy as Hershel will allow and there's some comfort to be found in cooking and mending and the weight of a baby in her arms. Checking ammunition stores and cleaning weapons may be less familiar, but she draws strength from that too. It's all part of what she does to take care of her family now.

Distraction is harder to come by when night settles over the prison.

Judith's eyes are already fluttering closed as she draws the last ounce from her bottle and by the time Carol's practiced hands have coaxed a burp from her, she's fast asleep, a boneless warmth burrowed into her shoulder. _Like Sophia_, she thinks with a half-smile and it's an ache and a solace all at once. Midnight feedings were always her favorite. Just the two of them in the quiet and stillness, like they were the only people awake in the world.

Do mothers still think that way way in this world where the dead and the missing are often more present than the living? Like they are right now for her?

She settles Judith into the makeshift bassinet next to Carl and moves along the corridor, breathing a quiet thank you to T-Dog when she sees his pack, still neatly placed on the end of his bunk. Further on Glenn and Maggie's blankets are a tangled mess on top of the mattresses they pushed into the corner and she sees one of Maggie's shirts tossed in the corner. She'll wash it tomorrow so it'll be clean when the Maggie comes home.

Her footsteps are faltering as she approaches the cell she shared with Lori. She's avoided it since she looked into Rick's eyes and saw his loss-_their loss_-reflected there. Without really thinking it through, she keeps moving. Time enough to face that guilt tomorrow.

She's only consciously aware of her destination when she arrives at the top of the steps and for a moment she wishes desperately that he was there, then smiles wryly at the idea that she'd have the courage to find her way uninvited to Daryl Dixon's bed if he was actually in it.

But if she did? Would he stare right back at her and take her hand and pull her down to lie next to him? Would the warmth and the press of their bodies together offer comfort or consolation or something more?

When he comes back, maybe she'll find out.

She settles down, pushes his pillow into place and curls into his blanket, knowing that this at least he wouldn't object to. He told her to stay safe and right now this is the safest place she can think of.


	5. Nothing Sure

**_A/N: Daryl makes it back to the prison after the events of "Made to Suffer' and Carol is there to welcome him. _**

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**Nothing Sure**

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"This ain't exactly what I meant by staying safe," he snarls in her direction as he yanks his knife from the back of the walker's skull and shoves it back into the sheath.

Shit. That didn't come out quite right, but he damn near had a heart attack when he came limping out from the treeline only to see her barrelling out of the gate to meet him. Carol smiles anyway, throwing her rifle over one shoulder and tucking the other under his arm like she thinks he can't make it another 100 yards.

"Didn't hear you complaining when I took out that other walker on your heels," she says lightly.

He snorts and maybe he is a little weaker than he lets on to himself because his arm snakes itself around her waist, ignoring the burn along his own side where a nearly spent bullet had scored him.

"S'a good shot," he admits. "Woulda been better if you had taken it from _inside_ the fence."

Her eyes flash up at his and then drop and there's something there that makes his breath catch and his chest tighten.

"I had to be closer. I had to be sure," she says and now he can hear it, the  
effort it's taking to keep her voice even and he wants to comfort her but he doesn't know the words.

Ain't nothing sure in this world, they both know that, but he lets himself lean on her a little more as she leads him to the prison gate.


	6. Order from the Chaos

**A/N: Mostly back-story but vaguely set post '****_Made to Suffer_****,' this is my attempt to delve into Daryl's worldview. Tiny hint of Caryl just because.**

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_**Order from the Chaos**_

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Daryl Dixon never made it to school exactly regular. After his mama died there weren't no one to make him go for one thing, 'cept maybe the law and hell, not even the county sheriff seemed interested in telling Earl Dixon that his boy needed an education. Sometimes he was too tired to go or too sore from whatever walloping his Daddy or even Merle had laid on him the night before. Sometimes the woods and the solitude and peace he only seemed able to find there called him and how could being trapped in the back of some classroom compete with that?

But from the start of his fourth grade school year up right until Christmas break he didn't miss a single day. Merle laughed and called him a teacher's pet and a needy little bastard and he weren't wrong because at that point in his life a little simple affection still had the power to draw him like a moth to the flame.

He'll work out later how much safer it is to just do without.

Miss Martin didn't seem to care that his wrists and ankles poked out of last year's clothes or that his shoes had holes. She didn't mind when he stumbled over his reading or couldn't untangle the long division problem on the board without help. She surely was not in favor of the bloody nose he gave Jimmy Branson on the playground, but just as sure she marched into Principal Rawson's office and somehow managed to save his ass from a helluva paddling. (Anyway, Jimmy learned to keep his damned mouth shut about 'skinny school-teacher bitches' so there was that.)

And she told stories. Sometimes from a book, sometimes from her own head. The children who disappear into wardrobes and the children who find their way out of the woods with breadcrumbs and the children who are lost along the trail. Brothers who turn into birds and the sisters who don't say a word for years to turn 'em back. Tricksters and wise-women and monsters and desperate last stands all swirling around in his head, somehow making more sense than the real world around him.

He knew even then that a bunch of lies don't put food on the table or clothes on his back but something in them pulled him in anyway and he must have looked half-bewitched, so still as to be almost be holding his breath every time the woman spoke.

She got him a library card. Helped him find a book. Smiled warmly at him as she watched him sound out the unfamiliar words.

And then sometime just before the new year she was killed dead, her car hit head-on by some drunk on his way home from a tittie-bar on the edge of town.

Merle told him, clapped him on shoulder and said he should be grateful it wasn't their old man driving the other vehicle. Brought him out into the woods though after that, the two of them breaking into an old hunting camp and doing their level best to poach a few deer out of season. Even took the time to show him how to use a bow, even if he did howl with laughter every time he skinned his arm with the string.

He'd finally shown back up at school two weeks into the quarter and the teacher the school had pulled out of retirement to fill in wasn't surprised. What else could you expect from a Dixon?

He didn't spend much time thinking about fairy-tales after that.

Only, you know, what with the world ending and all, they started bubbling up in his head again.

Carol, the princess locked away in the tower until she wakes up with the help of a pick-ax instead of a kiss. Sophia, one of those lost children, found but not. His very own monster, his brother, both a warning and a comfort. The story of Cain and Abel, played out in front of them all and himself, the huntsman, reading the signs as best he can.

Carol again, brought back from the dark with the opening of a door, only now he's starting to wonder about those the possibility of those kisses.

And Miss Martin, dead these thirty years. Would any of her stories have prepared her for this world? Brought order from the chaos for her as they seem to do for him?

All he knows is that as he looks at Carl and at Jude, as he hopes for the others that may come, he'll pass them along as he can.

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**A/N: Thanks so much for reading and I'd love to know what you think!**


	7. I Can't Keep No Secrets

_**A/N: This drabble-and in particular, the last line-was inspired by a conversation I had with the very talented Gone Random about her story, **_**Kiss**_**. It's set in the winter between season 2 & 3 and is meant to fit into existing canon. Implied Caryl because they're adorable. **_

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**I Can't Keep No Secrets**

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He's not worried about her exactly. He knows he doesn't have to be, been three hard months on the road since they lost the farm, and by now Carol's near as quick a shot as any of them. Handy with the knife he gave her, too.

Still.

There's something...more like an itch that's worked itself deep under his skin, this urge to take care of her and he's long since given up trying to figure out why. Just the way things are, he figures.

They're holed up in some farmhouse in the backcountry for a few days, the whole lot of them pinched with cold and hunger and none more so than Carol. She'd fed them all what she could, making the most of the meager supplies scavenged from a blood-splattered kitchen without complaint, but it doesn't escape his notice that she's serving an extra-spoonful off her own plate to Lori, whose rounded belly is poking out more every day and another to Carl who seems to have grown an inch this month alone. What's left ain't much and she's always been a little thing, but these days she's all angles, like a fledgling bird.

(Her eyes are still soft sometimes though, like when she catches his eye and offers him a slight smile, lips just curving up at the corners.)

Most of them are already bedded down for the night right there in the parlor where a small fire burns in the hearth. Rick stays long enough to see them settled before he takes off to walk the perimeter with a nod at Daryl. Carol is sitting on her sleeping bag with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, just a few feet from where his own bedroll is set up. No surprise there, they're both more comfortable on the edge of the crowd and neither of them are going to sleep with an open door at their backs. More than once he's woken up to find her curled a little closer, unconsciously seeking warmth in the middle of the night, no doubt, and he finds he don't mind it much.

He drops down next to her, watching the firelight flicker against her face. She uncurls and looks up at him, and then there's that smile, the one he's maybe starting to think of as _his_. The thought ruffles him enough so that he jams his hand when he shoves into his pocket and he knows his voice is a little rougher than it needs to be.

"Here," he grunts, tossing the can into her lap like a hot potato. Tin of canned peaches, small, like you'd put in a kids lunch. He wonders if she used to pack them for Sophia, a little twist in his gut burning at the thought.

"What's this?" she runs a finger along it, clearly puzzled.

He huffs irritatedly. "There's the label right there, ain't no mystery meat. Found it in the back of the cupboard. Always feeding everyone else 'round here, time someone made you eat something yourself."

"I don't...," she protests.

"You do," he says firmly. "Now eat."

Her eyes are still down but he can see her smile widen and he relaxes a little, pleased to have pulled that reaction from her.

The sweet smell of fruit fills the air between them when she pulls the ring tab. She tips the can up, a peach slice glowing golden in the firelight when she catches it between her teeth, and his sharp ears pick up the tiniest sound of enjoyment when she swallows. Suddenly, the fire seems unpleasantly hot and his fingers are itching for his bow to check, or a gun to clean, or _anything_.

"Want some?" she offers, and he swallows hard himself and shakes his head.

He darts a sideways glance at her and starts worrying his lip between his teeth. Doorway's right in front of them and Rick probably could use another set of eyes on watch and fuck, he doesn't even know what he's still doing here, watching her eat those damn peaches.

As if to make a liar out of him, a sudden image flies in front of his eyes. Him, licking a drop of juice from the corner of her mouth and then chasing the flavor of it on her tongue until she's as breathless and desperate as he is.

_Shit, shit, shit._

The twitching in his pants is confirmation that part of him at least has a few ideas. That don't mean he's gonna get it, any more than a starving man gets offered a free steak.

Only now she's finished the can and is swiping at her lips with one knuckle and leaning towards him, eyes soft and his heart starts thumping out a painful beat.

"Thank you," she says quietly, close enough for her breath to be felt along his cheek and then just as quickly as she advanced, she retreats, looking away and smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles on her sleeping bag.

He lurches to his feet, muttering a strangled '_you're welcome_' and heads for the door to join Rick on watch. Fuck, he hopes there's something to kill out there.

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**_A/N: Not so zen now, are we Daryl? Seriously, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and I'd love feedback if you're so inclined. _**


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